


A Lingering Memory Of A Kiss

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indulgent Montsous. Talk of masks and memories and kissing, and most of all, of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lingering Memory Of A Kiss

"If the room were to be completely dark, would you kiss me?" Montparnasse’s words were tempered with complete and utter desperation, and Maurice Fabron went utterly still. He’d been leaning to close the shutters, and he didn’t turn around to look at Montparnasse. He didn’t need to to know that the boy  _(and he **was**  a boy, really, of course he was_) was wringing his hands and shaking and staring at the other criminal’s back.

"No." Claquesous said, and he put thoughts of his name ( _his real name_ ) aside for the time being.

"Please." And Montparnasse  _whispered_ _it._ He frowned, turning to examine the other man carefully, and restrained himself from letting out a sigh. Montparnasse looked as if he’d been sobbing, and while that was bad enough, it was  _truly_  terrible when Montparnasse had not even made the effort to make his pretty face pretty again once the tears had stopped.

"I said no." And Montparnasse heaved in a little breath, and didn’t say anything more, but dropped to his knees. "But if the room is dark,  _and_  I have you blindfolded with your hands tied, then I shall indulge you.” Montparnasse’s head snapped up, and he stared up at Claquesous with his wide, reddened eyes.

He did not know what the younger thief had been crying about, but it didn’t matter now: he had finished, and that was all that mattered. Claqueous indicated for Montparnasse to stand, and moved behind him, tying his wrists firmly with a small length of rope.

He had never kissed Montparnasse before. There was too much risk of dislodging his mask, or of Montparnasse reaching up to push it aside, but if it was utterly dark, Montparnasse had no hands which which to push it aside with, and had his eyes blinded to boot, there could be an indulgence. This once.

Because it could not be allowed for Montparnasse to recognize the face of Maurice Fabron, a recruit the police force had taken on too many years ago, a young informant at the time. He wasn’t young anymore, not like he had been, but he made his reports with regularity.

Claquesous shut the curtains.

He used Montparnasse’s cravat to serve as a blindfold, folding the cloth over thrice before tying it over his eyes. And then, he removed the ebony mask from face, setting it aside carefully on the table. Montparnasse’s breathing was faster than usual, and Claquesous cupped his face.

He waited until Montparnasse’s pretty lips twitched, almost  impossible to make out in the darkness, waited until Montparnasse was about to speak out of sheer impatience. And then, he leaned and captured Montparnasse’s pretty, pretty lips under his own, leaning heavily into it.

At the barest trace of Claquesous’ tongue, Montparnasse opened his mouth and allowed the other free entrance. Claquesous was not as rushed as Montparnasse wanted him to be, slow about it, impossibly skilled with his tongue and his lips, and when he finally drew back, he caught Montparnasse’s lip with his teeth, drawing a sharp whimper from Montparnasse’s mouth.

"How is that?"

“ _Perfect_.” Montparnasse whispered, and he very nearly fell, but Claquesous caught him. It was not a swoon, he didn’t think, merely a buckling of his knees, but all the same, the larger man caught Montparnasse with a practised ease.

"You are a dramatist." Claquesous grumbled, leading him to the couch, climbing atop his lap (and how ridiculous that must look, given how much bigger he was than the boy) and straddling his thighs. He caught Montparnasse’s mouth before he could answer, a hand moving between them to cup Montparnasse through his trousers.

Coaxing an orgasm from Montparnasse had never been so easy, and when he’d had his release, he fell back, an interminable babble coming from his lips. “Amazing, truly, you are a Luciferian angel of the darkness, and you entice me to rise, Claquesous, even if you have fallen, I wish, I want, kiss me again-“

"You steal words from the mouths of student poets again." Claquesous murmured. 

"I steal their wallets, their clothes, their books, their guns, why not their words to boot?" Montparnasse said in a dreamy, utterly  _serene_  tone, and Claquesous chuckled despite himself, the noise hoarse and rare from his throat. He dipped to kiss the other man again, this one a chaste embrace, and then pulled back, picking his mask from the table. “Is that us finished?”

"We are never to be finished, Montparnasse." Claquesous said, unsure if his words would ring true or not, as the year went on. "But the kissing? That is finished."

Nothing more was said. 

Montparnasse thought often of that kiss, thought of that phantom mouth upon his own, teeth and tongue and lips so  _warm_  and deft, thought of his own, overwhelmed state, the way he’d arched and whined, had leaned into the touch for more. The way he had been eager.

And after the June Rebellion, when Le Cabuc’s corpse had been found among the dead, Montparnasse had crept with his sepulchral grace to look upon those newly cold bodies, and he had stared at Claquesous’ face.

A nice one. A good face: such a shame to have hidden it beneath a mask.

That night, when Montparnasse shook in his bed, he thought on a lingering memory of a kiss, and thought of how that face must have looked in the darkness, thoughtful and pensive as the man behind it had considered kissing his companion.

Montparnasse tried to hold the tears back, but failed as miserably the night he’d asked for such an embrace. He wept for cruel memories that would not leave him be, not only of Claquesous, but of sweet Éponine, who had been among the dead too.

He shivered in his bed that night, cold for the lack of a man beside him, and turned colder in a worse fashion. He was vicious the next week, garrotting a dozen men,  _more_ , before his thirst for blood was quenched a little, and with that, he retired to the darkness for a time.

Miljan Montparnasse became a lingering memory: a lingering memory of a busy city, post-revolution, and it was so easy,  _so_  easy, to assume the flower of the night had been caught up on the barricades.

It was easy.

It made it easier, too, when Montparnasse picked up a rose-red mask carved of mahogany and carefully painted, and, for the first time, hid his pretty face with its stunning curves.


End file.
